


even if we hit the ground

by thessalonike (starblessed)



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Blood and Injury, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Pre-Canon, Whump, sunset curve cannot stand to see reggie upset / hurting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/thessalonike
Summary: It all explodes in an instant, so fast that no one really gets the chance to react.On reflex, Luke turns. Alex is standing behind his drum set, tall and tense, but he’s not looking at him. His gaze is fixed somewhere else completely: the floor at Luke’s feet.The seconds stretch out like hours. Luke can’t think, can’t force his brain to work or his body to move, can’t even make air enter his lungs. It’s impossible to do any of that when the room is complete chaos... and there’s blood, and there’s shouting, and through it all Reggie is laying on the floor, unmoving.-------An accident during Sunset Curve's rehearsal leaves Reggie injured, and the rest of the band reeling.
Relationships: Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters, Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters (Julie and The Phantoms)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	even if we hit the ground

**Author's Note:**

> i just... like to hurt reggie, okay? don't come @ me.
> 
> warnings for head injuries, blood, and Crisis Mode Luke.

It all explodes in an instant, so fast that no one really gets the chance to react. 

Not Bobby, who at the last second spots the pyrotechnic off it’s mark, too close to the center of the stage; not Luke, who doesn’t realize until the explosion bursts too loud, way too close; not Alex, whose drumsticks go flying as he throws himself forward, covering his head. None of them saw it coming; none of them were ready.

The roar of “Now Or Never” dies off abruptly. Caught in a mass of sour-smelling smoke, Sunset Curve are left coughing, waving to clear the air.

“Ah, man!” hollers Luke, his voice echoing in the empty nightclub. “Come on, guys, I said be careful with the pyros!”

“Whose idea was it to have explosions in the first place?” Bobby demands through coughs, elbowing Luke pointedly. Luke brushes him off, moving forward through the smoke. When his foot impacts something hard, he doesn’t think anything of it; there’s cheap smoke in his eyes, and it’s hard to see anything past the blur of stage managers scrambling to fix the set-up.

 _Play at seedy places, get seedy stage crew,_ he muses — but any hint of annoyance goes out the window when Alex’s voice echoes behind him.

“Luke.”

On reflex, Luke turns. Alex is standing behind his drum set, tall and tense, but he’s not looking at him. His gaze is fixed somewhere else completely: the floor at Luke’s feet.

“Shit!” Bobby exclaims, and does a sliding fall to his knees.

Luke...

Doesn’t have time to react. He just doesn’t. The seconds stretch out like hours, and he can’t think, can’t force his brain to work or his body to move, can’t even make air enter his lungs. It’s impossible to do _any of that_ when his bandmates are on the floor... and there’s blood, and there’s shouting, and through it all Reggie is laying completely still.

Just _laying_ there, face turned away; his hairline split open, and a steady stream of blood pools on the dusty stage beneath his head.

Even when Bobby grabs him, he doesn’t stir. There’s ash on his face, traces of the explosion all over his white t-shirt, singing his hair and his leather jacket... Reggie was the closest, Luke realizes with a sick start. The pyrotechnic box was on _his_ side, literally right next to him. When it went off, it just...

_Shit._

Alex has moved too, launching himself off the drum stand and pounding across the stage. Immediately, he falls into a crouch at the prone boy’s head. There’s no hesitation. His hands are on Reggie immediately, pawing at his face as he murmurs soft words Luke’s brain can’t comprehend. When Reggie fails to answer, Alex’s jaw goes rigid, eyes bright with fear. Dark strands of hair cling to Reggie’s forehead, damp with sweat and fresh blood. On instinct, Alex brushes them away. With his face clear, it’s only more obvious how slack it is, how... lifeless.

Sirens wail in Luke’s head. It’s impossible to take his eyes off Reggie. He doesn’t realize anyone’s talking to him until Alex’s raised voice slices through the din.

“Luke!"

He jumps, and the spell breaks; that’s all that’s needed to send him to his knees, hitting the ground at Reggie’s side. Immediately, Luke can’t keep his hands off him. He starts patting him down, checking under his jacket as though expecting to find worse wounds hidden at any moment. Maybe the explosion tore a hole straight through him, or — or he’s missing half his foot, or he’s got bones sticking out of places they shouldn’t be —

“Why isn’t he moving, Luke? Can he hear us?” Alex’s words come out rushed, choked with fear and tight with panic. “I don’t think he can hear us — Reg, man, come on...”

A black-fingernailed hand suddenly pushes into the scene. It’s Bobby, with a half-full water bottle. Instinctively, Luke leans back, giving him the space to work; Alex does the opposite, cradling Reggie’s head on his knees. Gently, Bobby drizzles a bit of water over Reggie’s face.

Just like that, he’s sputtering. His chest heaves, his eyes flutter. He coughs away the water that’s drizzled into his mouth like he’s remembering how to breathe again. 

Something inside Luke goes soft again, a rubber band he hadn’t realized was pulled so close to snapping. His heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest. Reggie’s eyes open wide, gaping up at them, and Luke can’t help laughing out loud.

“Geez, Reg!” he exclaims. “You scared us to death!”

Reggie exhales and blinks, stirring a bit in Alex’s lap. It takes him a minute to catch up. His gaze roves sluggishly around the rest of his bandmates hovering anxiously above him. If the attention phases him, he doesn’t show it. He just makes a tiny noise, like a wounded animal, and his brows draw close together.

“Dead?” he echoes, voice way too small. “‘M I — I’m dead?”

“What? Reg, no —“ Luke starts to laugh again, but it cuts off very abruptly. Alex’s face is set in a tense mask, and Bobby’s frown looks like it’s been carved out with a knife. Nothing’s funny about this situation, and Luke knows it the second he sees the fear in Reggie’s eyes.

“I don’t...” He cuts off with a tiny moan, shifting in Alex’s lap; their drummer’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing that keep him still, but that only seems to upset Reggie more. He pushes against them and whines, trying to arch his back but unable to manage it. “Where ‘m I? Where...”

“Hey, hey — it’s okay, Reg. You’re okay. We’re right here.” Alex bends his head, speaking softly, words intimate enough for Reggie’s ears only. It’s the same tone he uses whenever Luke’s in one of his firestorms, too blazing with emotion to see sense, or Reggie’s shaking after a bad blowout between his parents — the voice guaranteed to cut through a scrambled brain, soothing as cool water and just as attention-snaring. It’s something Luke has envied, sometimes; in somebody else’s crisis, Alex always knows the thing to say, and just the right way to say it. 

One broad hand leaves Reggie’s shoulders, cupping his face. Without any awareness of what he’s doing, Reggie leans into the touch. “Easy, Reg,” Alex soothes, stroking his fingers over his cheek. “Just take a minute to breathe.”

Which would be easy, if the bump on Reggie’s head wasn’t getting worse by the minute. It’s gone from the size of a dime to a steadily-growing goose egg, a welt swelling up around the gash, steadily forcing out more blood. Luke can’t look at it without feeling sick. He tries to reach for Reggie’s hand, at a loss for any better way to help, but Reggie jerks away, just curling into Alex’s touch. Luke pulls back, stung.

Of course he doesn’t mean it. He’s scared, overwhelmed, probably hurting to hell and back. It’s not _Reggie’s_ fault —

But Luke finds himself moving back anyways, inch by inch. As though this is just another detention he can sneak out of, another fight with his parents he can avoid before it starts. He’s always been good at running… but never from his friends.

He doesn’t realize anyone’s talking to him until there’s a hand on his shoulder, jarring him around. “— what?”

“I said ---” Bobby’s face is drawn, coal black eyes boring into him --- _him_ , instead of Reggie, who’s the one on the floor. When he speaks, his voice is low. “You okay?”

Luke can’t help scoffing all over again; it comes out a little hysterical. Typical Bobby. He’s the oldest of them all, and likes to act like it… which is annoying at times, and infuriating at others. If Alex is Reggie’s anchor right now, Bobby’s trying to be Luke’s. Much as he wants to lean into the touch, into the idea that someone here has a handle on the situation — because hell knows _he_ certainly doesn’t — Luke’s greater instincts tear his gaze away. He drags a hand through his hair, practically ripping at the roots.

“Yeah. Yeah, man, I’m fine.”

Even though he definitely sounds the opposite, Bobby knows better than to push. Over the years, he’s learned getting Luke to admit to anything he doesn’t want to is like wrestling a dead horse. Instead he just nods, grip loosening on Luke’s shoulder.

“Did you see what he hit his head on?”

Luke shakes his head. “I didn’t see anything, man.”

From the grim look on Bobby’s face, he obviously didn’t, either. There were just sparks, and the smoke, and then _the blood…_

(They’ll find out later, from one of the club crew who’d seen the whole thing, that the explosion went off too early. Reggie was too close, and he’d just gone _flying_. His bass went, the mic went, his head made a nasty thump as it connected…)

“Where’s the mic stand? God.” Bobby is searching, combing the stage with sharp eyes for it. “Do you see it anywhere?”

“The mic?” Luke glances around, confusion dipping into bafflement. Reggie’s bass is across the floor, battered like a piñata; he can’t even _see_ where the stand landed. Last thing he remembers, Reggie was riding the mic for his solo line, bouncing with his infectious energy… and then they were all supposed to step back, and then, and then —

Luke was _right there._ He was right next to the explosion, right next to Reggie, and he didn’t do a thing. Didn’t even see it. _How did he not see it_?

“L-Luke?”

The very small voice has his attention immediately. In a second, he’s back by Reggie’s side, leaning over his friend like a worried mom. “Hey, dude,” he says, offering Reggie a breathless smile. “I’m right here.”

Reggie takes a deep breath, and just ends up moaning. “Is… ev’ryone okay?”

Alex catches Luke’s gaze over Reggie’s head. There’s tension in his temples, fear playing at his lips. When he shakes his head, just the tiniest bit, Luke’s stomach lurches.

“Yeah, man. We’re all good.” Reggie’s hand is twitching at his side, grasping at empty air. Luke takes a chance, and fits his hand in Reggie’s again. This time, his friend squeezes back — and it’s such a relief, Luke nearly bursts into tears. “You caught the worst of it, but — hey, it’s fine, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

“M’head hurts,” Reggie mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. A hand drifts to his head, but gets lost somewhere along the way, falling back down again. “The light hurts…”

He sounds like he’s fading in and out. “Hey, hey, no — not right now.” Alex smacks his face, just hard enough to jolt Reggie back to awareness. “No sleeping ‘til the ambulance gets here.”

That gives Luke a nasty jolt, worse than the time Reggie tried fixing his amp in the rain. “Ambulance?” he mouths over Reggie’s head.

“ _Yeah_ , ambulance,” Alex retorts in a hiss. “They’ve already called for one. He’s gotta get looked at, Luke, look at his eyes.”

That’s probably the last thing Luke wants to do. Another reason to be terrified, another thing to keep his heart lodged in his throat… but Reggie’s looking at him now, and he can’t not look back. His eyes — always so clear, blue edged out by a splash of green — are unfocused now, huge as dinner plates and scared half to death. More concerning than anything else — even the gash on Reggie’s forehead, still stubbornly leaking blood — is the way one eye is almost colorless, the pupil blown wide enough to eat everything else up. It’s like a black hole, drawing Luke in and overwhelming him with a new wave of fear.

“That — that’s bad, right?” Who’s he kidding, _of course_ it’s bad! Luke’s hands clench into fists against the filthy stage, chest heaving with every labored breath. Reggie’s looking at him for answers, and he hasn’t got any. All he has is fear, and an overwhelming realization of his own helplessness. His best friend’s bleeding on the floor, and he can’t do anything for him; what kind of friend does that make Luke? What kind of bandmate? 

“Guys gotta stop lookin’ at me like I’m dying,” Reggie manages. Even though his words are thick and slurred, annoyance drips from then. “‘S freaking me out.”

“Nope, that’s just Luke being Luke.” Without warning, Luke finds himself jerked back by a strong hand on his shoulder. Bobby hits the stage beside him on his knees, bulky icepack in his hands and a warning in his eyes. _Control your stupidly-expressive face for once,_ he seems to say, _or take a step back. Your choice._

Except it isn’t a choice at all. Leaving Reggie’s side isn’t an option — not even for a second. Luke has no idea how, but he manages to force his face into something neutral. When Bobby catches his eye again, he nods once, stonefaced. That’s all the reassurance Luke can hope for.

“Here, just keep the ice on it for a minute…”

Reggie groans again as his friends press the pack to the swollen welt over his brow. Alex’s fingers thread through strands of dark hair, trying to soothe him, but it does little; Reggie only writhes in his arms, muttering something Luke can’t pick out. Alex, equally baffled, just shrugs at his bandmates’ questioning gazes. Lowering his head, he hushes Reggie softly. 

“We should ask him questions,” Bobby says suddenly.

“What questions?” Luke exclaims.

“The concussion questions!”

“There are concussion questions?” asks Alex.

“Yeah, come on, you know the ones — like, like —“

“Too loud,” Reggie murmurs, grimacing.

Bobby settles a hand on Reggie’s cheek, coaxing his unfocused gaze up to him. “Hey, man. Tell me what your name is.”

Alex gapes at him; Reggie’s face scrunches up, not with pain but confusion. For the first time, Luke wonders if _Bobby’s_ the one who lost his marbles.

“Come on, dude, your full name.”

“I, uhh… I…” It doesn’t come to him immediately. Reggie’s brows furrow as he scrabbles for the right words, like a blind man searching in the dark. Understanding bursts firecracker-bright in Luke’s chest. Yeah, he’s heard of this before. Bobby’s the only one of them who’s ever been into sports, the only one who might’ve seen head injuries firsthand. Of course he knows the routine. Some things, after you’ve seen them once, you never forget.

Finally, Reggie manages to force his tongue to work again. “Uhh, Reginald Michael Peters.” As soon as he’s said it, his gaze flickers between his bandmates, seeking reassurance — _I got that right, right?_ Alex’s hand tightens on Reggie’s shoulder, a soft squeeze, and the hurt boy relaxes.

“Great. What’s today’s date?”

“Maybe… March? March something, ninety… five. I dunno.”

“Irrelevant. Reggie _never_ knows the date,” counters Alex.

Conceding the point, Bobby nods, offering their friend a tight smile. “Do you know all our names?”

This is the part where they really lose his interest. Reggie heaves a shuddering exhale and slumps back in Alex’s arms, eyes screwing shut again. “Sure, sure. We got... Freddy Krueger,” he mutters, waving vaguely towards Luke. “Elvis… ‘n Chuck-e-Cheese. Whole gang’s here.”

Alex ducks his head to hide a snort. “Oh yeah, he’s fine.”

If Reggie has the strength to act like an idiot, he’s probably not kicking down death’s door. Still, Bobby isn’t satisfied. When he continues to paw at him, Reggie’s hands come up, just to swat him away.

“Bobby,” he says flatly, “cut it out. M’head hurts.”

“You gotta stay awake, Reg. Just stay with us.”

“Where else ‘m I gonna go? Big nightclub in the sky?” His eyes open again, blazing with frustration past a haze of pain. Luke can’t help it — he laughs out loud, and all eyes turn to him.

“Not without us, Reg.” He seizes hold of his friend’s hand again, and squeezes it tight. Reggie squeezes back, and that’s all that matters. “You're not going anywhere. You’re staying right here with us.”

“ _Well_ ,” Alex says. “Ambulance.”

“Okay, yeah. But we’re staying right with you when you _go_ into the ambulance.”

“Ehh, I’m not sure—“ Alex starts, but Bobby cuffs him on the shoulder, and he goes quiet.

Reggie’s got a smile on his face, anyways… faint, but he’s still smiling, and Luke’s heart could burst in his chest.

As it turns out, they don’t all get to go with him in the ambulance. The paramedic laughs in their faces when Luke tries to insist. “Told you so,” Alex murmurs… but then Reggie gets so upset over being separated from them all, he practically flings himself off the moving gurney, and exceptions have to be made. _Alex_ is the exception. In his bright pink hoodie and bleached jeans, he still looks less like a punk and more like he plays trumpet in the school marching band. The paramedic eyes Bobby and Luke like they’re going to try to pocket horse tranquilizers, which, _offensive…_ but when Alex slips into the ambulance at Reggie's side, and offers them a salute as the doors close, neither of them resent him for it.

“Come on,” Bobby says. His hand crashes into Luke's back. “Let’s see if we can beat Reggie to the hospital."

The boys scramble out the back door, not even stopping to grab their instruments, and leap into Bobby’s van. No need to say, tonight’s show is cancelled. 

After that, everything's a blur, really. Luke remembers the anxiety... remembers the waiting... remembers the doctors and pacing and worried parents who can’t be in the same room for ten minutes. He remembers finally being let into Reggie’s room to see him sitting up in bed. He's got a line of dark stitches on his brow, and a dopey grin on his face. He looks like _himself_ again. Luke’s first move is to hug him — and even if Reggie murmurs an “ouch” in his ear, he still returns the embrace.

He remembers how much Reggie sleeps for the next few days, even after they get to take him home. He remembers the poor kid, curled up on the couch in the loft, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open… the weight of his head when it dropped against Luke’s shoulder, the damp spot of drool he left on his t-shirt. 

Clearer than anything else, he remembers Reggie, still in his hospital bed, looking around between his friends. “Thanks, guys,” he said softly. “For saving me.”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, looking away; Alex lowered his head; Luke just laughed out loud. 

“Hey, where’re we gonna find a new bassist who can shred like you?” He reaches out, stopping himself just before he can ruffle Reggie’s hair. Instead, he gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Reggie leans into the touch. “You’re not getting away from us that easy,” he declares.

“Yeah,” chimes Bobby. “If we get blown up, we’re all going out together.”

“Or not at all. Preferably not at all.” Alex looks between his bandmates. “Can we please stop talking about getting blown up?”

Reggie laughs hard, even though it makes him dizzy. Luke holds his shoulders, and catches his grin, and everything feels like it’s going to be okay.

That’s all they can hope for, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [reggieshairflip](https://reggieshairflip.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
